


Dying To Love You

by youmakeme_sikkelsen



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Angst, God I don't know what to tag this yet, Healing, M/M, Obsession, Psychological Drama, probably altogether unhealthy relationship, serial killer au
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-09-15
Updated: 2015-10-25
Packaged: 2018-04-20 20:55:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 10,654
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4801922
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/youmakeme_sikkelsen/pseuds/youmakeme_sikkelsen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After being imprisoned for the murder of his entire family Ivan Braginsky was about ready to settle into prison and fulfill his life sentence. Just then a true crime fanatic with a surety that Ivan was innocent delved into his own investigation and got the man an appeal, his freedom, and his very first encounter with someone who thought, for some reason, that he was a good person.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. A note

So, before I get into the actual fic, I just wanted to say a word or two in advance.

I at least wanted to mention that I'm going to be writing this fic as the ideas come to me. It hasn't been written beforehand, which I usually try to do. So if some plot stuff doesn't make sense or if I haven't tagged this well or SOMETHING goes wrong I just want you all to know that it was because this was a very loose, casual thing for me. Now that school is starting I wanted to have something fun to do if I get too stressed between homework assignments, you know? And hopefully you guys will all like it! This idea came to me and I fell in love so hopefully I'll do it some justice~ And if you actually do like this and want me to continues at least leave a kudo alright? I'm not asking for an entire comment but it would be nice to know that I'm doing this for something! Especially if I'm at risk of falling out of love with an idea, because I don't want to be one of those writers who leave people hanging when the going gets good, you know?

Thanks for reading. You can also find this fic on my tumblr sideblog myawritesstuff.tumblr.com under the tag named after the title ("Dying To Love You")


	2. "I'm Not Delusional, You're Delusional."

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Some fun news is given to an anon who probably won't be as excited as Alfred is. Semi-graphic descriptions of murder. Reader discretion advised.

Everyone knows about that awkward silence between the time it takes for one news anchor's voice to reach another's through a microphone. It's something everyone laughs at; the staged and stiff transition into a conversation with a question, an introduction of the second news anchor gripping a microphone and the blank stares into the camera that both give for just long enough that people begin to notice something is up. 

Anchorwoman Denise Steel wished she didn't have this problem. That she could predict what her co-workers were saying and ignore her cameraman's countdown to make things as fluid as possible. Really people laughed at the situation, not the news people, but Steel couldn't shake the awful suggestion that they might think her incompetent for even a split second. Even if malicious thoughts were slippery and had no hold on the brain, she despised when they were about her. She didn't want to look a fool. Thankfully tonight her report would be so interesting that no one would care. It would be forgotten in a second.

Rarely did international news make the morning news in America, unless there was some sort of terrible accident or political issue the government could stuff its nose into. So of course when it was brought up to everyone that someone would have to report on some farmhouse murder taking place in a timezone nearly a quarter of a day ahead of them she jumped at this chance. It was exciting, it was new, it made the few seconds of wait between conversation one of suspense. 

Steel teased her already frizzy hair with her hand as she tried to give the camera the most concerned look she could muster. Her lipstick was a new line being offered at her favorite makeup store, maybe a Maybelline brand. She rubbed her lips together as she nodded solemnly, listening to a man in her Bluetooth somberly give the viewers an outline of what they were about to hear. Not too many details, but enough to tickle the interests of anyone living in quiet suburbs who were so far attached from violence and crime that these sorts of stories were things of great interest. Denise knew the type, being one herself. It was an experience to express condolences towards strangers as she and her friends tossed around their horror stories like juicy gossip. 

Then it came, the silence that almost passed her attention if she hadn't realized that the other reporter was nearing the end of his speech. The people at home heard silence, she heard a voice in her ear, and finally the cameraman motioned for her to begin. 

"Thank you, Tom." She began customarily and then inhaled dramatically. "Porozovo, Russia, a small town in the Ivanovo district with a population of just one hundred. A rural town not unlike the kind we see back home in places like Texas or Kansas, or even Louisiana. While this quaint village does not have its own swamp, there is a beautiful river located not too far from the farms and neat little houses. Everyone knows each other and everyone is extremely friendly, as the crew and I have experienced firsthand. So when tragedy struck on the night of December 30th the entire town was shaken as a whole."

Denise took a step to the side and in a sweeping gesture that wasn't too grand for the sake of looking mournful she sighed and began again. "Here, right in this farm at around 1:15 am an entire family was brutally murdered, as well as several animals the family owned, by a member of the family, a boy of only 15." She knew a picture might be flashing beside her and she tried to look even more mournful. Now for the gritty part. That was what she had to sell. "Ivan Braginsky, the middle child in a family of five, had been missing the day of the murder. Unable to find him and certain that nothing could go wrong in their little neck of the woods they decided that he would come back when he was ready to. Still worried and ready to stay up all night Ivan's mother Gallya was prepared to stay up all night before being coaxed to bed by her husband, another Ivan. Little did she know the danger would not befall her son, but rather the rest of her family.

" While everyone was asleep police said that Ivan went to his sister's bedroom first. 7-year old Natalya and 17-year old Yekaterina were asleep in the same bed after the younger girl had a nightmare and needed to be hushed to sleep. Ivan planned on killing Katerina first, using a gun his father had kept as part of a collection. The family had all learned to hunt from a young age, so he would have been a good aim. But for some reason Ivan didn't put the silencer on correctly --maybe some nerves at the thought of killing his entire family? He shot Yekaterina in the forehead, an instant death, but alas the shot was so loud it woke little Natasha. Ivan must have had a moment of panic as he let her run from the bed and as far as the door before receiving a shot to the shoulder. This wasn't enough to keep the girl quiet and trouble ensued. 

"There was a struggle. Blood and hair and nails were found in the hallway. During that time some skin was found underneath Natasha's little nails, and though tests came back unresponsive Ivan had scratches on his chest and neck that were not easily explained. In the end the young girl was strangled to death at the hands of an older brother many sources say she looked up to and adored.

"The noise had caused a panic, of course, on the part of Ivan's parents. He left the house with Nat's blood on his hands and went right to the tool shed next to this barn here," The camera panned over to a barn not too far from the house. The paint on it, blue rather than red, was faded and chipping, like jeans that were ripped up and washed in bleach. Unlike the fashion statement there was no charm to this. The roof was sunken and the grass in front of it was dead and the entire thing breathed melancholy. Fitting, really, for the story that ensues. 

"With the gun abandoned in the fierce fight his tough sister put up he had to settle for grabbing tools from the shed. A sickle would not be the item most would grab, but it was newly sharpened and would do the job he needed. Cleverly, the boy was able to get it over his father's neck from behind, and a little pressure on some important arteries was a certain death for the man he was named after. This occurred just outside, where his father had followed him. All that was left was his mother, who put up an even more violent fight. It was horrific how much blood and gore was found at the scene of the crime. They said it was like Ivan wasn't even human at this point, and he even went out to slaughter the huge hogs and fluffy sheep the family owned, going so far as to eat a few pieces of intestines...raw."

Denise swallowed and tried to look like she was steeling herself. Like the thought was too much to handle and that it should be for everyone else watching. "Many of the religious people around here believe that Ivan was under some sort of Satanic curse. Indeed, their grandmother lives in a small town in Ukraine and was frequently visited by Kat. Her job? The local witch. But that isn't the sort of witchcraft that Hollywood likes to portray...at least, they have no ties to Satan. They do cast spells though, and a bit of a curse was written on the wall of the barn. What it said exactly the authorities would not reveal to us, but it's safe to say that Ivan was trying to carry out some sort of terrible ritual.

"A ritual that will cost him his whole life in jail. As unlucky as it sounds in a town like this, where you can go miles without seeing a neighbor, a neighbor saw Ivan run to the toolshed and witnessed him kill his own father. The boy, a friend of Natalya's named Toris, says that Ivan was not the most approachable person, and in fact was often quite a bully to him and two of his other friends. Ivan had a hard time finding companions apparently, and when he wanted to play games his suggestions were not always coming from a place of purity. 

"Ivan was quickly sent to jail, never to see the light of day again. In one of Russia's most high security prisons, tried like an adult, he will stay for the rest of his days. But will that bring back his family? Will that bring back the smiling faces of people he used to say he loved? And what of the people in town? How in the world do you shake the idea that anyone, anyone, could be Ivan...no matter how well you know them? 

"After the break we'll come back to talk to a lead detective on the case and see how such a crime has affected everyone. Meanwhile, the killer himself faces the facts with terrible indifference." Denise concluded, not smiling at any point. A cheery goodbye would make her look bad at such a serious moment. She waited until the cameraman gave a thumbs up and then dropped the mic from her mouth with a raised eyebrow. "Seriously? That screen was moving too slow, I felt like I had to improvise here." She complained almost immediately. "Speed it up next time okay? We're doing a serious job here. It's important for me."

The video twitched when it was paused and continued to have momentary spasms up and down, as was common on particularly old CDs. Or ones that were viewed several times. There was fast forwarding after a moment's pause, past glimpses of an older man with a large beard no doubt spewing nonsense about Ivan's effect on the whole town. They were too disturbed to wonder if he really did it. To give him a chance. And none of these scenes considered how Ivan felt about the whole thing. 

Alfred would have liked a segment like that. The villagers might have talked about him in a favorable way, if they knew that Ivan was suffering from some sort of guilt. They would have talked about how sweet he was and how extremely smart he was too. That way the world would think of him at least a bit more favorably. But for now Alfred clenched his teeth at the reporter with all her sympathetic stares and the Russian police officer with the lack of emotion in his eyes. He pressed play on the video again when Ivan came into view, sitting behind a small cell customarily used in Russian courtrooms, probably to embarrass the person. The corner of Alfred’s lips perked upwards and he didn’t stop the excitement from surging through him. He was so adorable back then, just getting a grasp of puberty but still lacking any grace. His cheeks were still a bit chubby and his wavy hair was thick and unmanageable. Alfred knew it probably felt silky and not rough like some hair did, and it never seemed to have any tangles. Feeling it under his fingernails and through his fingers would probably be _heaven._

Alfred laughed a little at his own fantasy while rubbing his eyes under his glasses. The glare from the television was bothering him a little in the dark but he wasn’t about to turn any lights on. It was late anyway and he was going to go to sleep after responding to a passive aggressive anon who he vaguely remembered fighting with a while ago. All of the arguments worth having with people on tumblr were few and far between and only with mutuals that shared his interests in true crime. Sometimes he started those, and once or twice he was just teasing his friends, which was what they were. Other times his arguments were in response to people who’d stumbled across his posts and decided to check out his blog, ignored the nsfw warnings, and were subsequently appalled by the gory pictures, descriptions and GIFs of serial killers (which were high quality and ones that he made himself. His most popular set were several pictures and GIFs of Charles Manson and his followers that he painstakingly remastered and tagged to his friend Kiku, who was extremely grateful for the early birthday present). Sometimes there were psychiatrists and psychologists on tumblr who critiqued his extensive interpretations of serial killers, which ended in very fun discourses, but more often than not it was some teen who took one or two psychology classes and tried to argue with him for the sake of arguing (“ah the internet”, he would write condescendingly). What bothered them the most, however? His extreme love for the infamous Russian serial killer Ivan Ivanov Braginsky. 

They were disturbed by the fact that Alfred could love a serial killer, but Alfred maintained indignantly and on several occasions that Ivan. Is. Innocent. That angered even more people for obvious reasons, and while delirious with sleep deprivation Alfred decided to post a little update on his evidence gathering, which landed him in Russia a long time ago. He made it vague on purpose, so that Ivan’s other fans could be caught up in the excitement, and he showered while he waited. Once he was out he checked his phone and had gotten one serious response while he was gone plus two angry anons, and so he decided to wait. It wouldn’t be much fun to give them the big news if no one was caught in suspense anyway. So he unpacked, messed around with pieces of his furniture in the hotel room, set up his laptop. Anything to keep him occupied while waiting for the excitement, though he was feeling antsy no matter how late it was. Finally he settled for snuggling in underneath his covers with all the lights off, his laptop’s glare making the area outside the perimeter of his laptop seem pitch black. He liked it like that, it felt like he was stuck in some void with nothing but Ivan. Or...footage of Ivan.

Ivan and an anon who told him that he was delusional like it was news, like plenty of others hadn’t told him already. Only this anon was special compared to the others. This one assured Alfred that Ivan was completely guilty, but their evidence was, “Just watch the court tapes.” Pitiful. Alfred glanced at his laptop screen and sighed as he scrutinized Ivan for the millionth time since he first saw this video. No part of him had any doubts in his head that Ivan was innocent and responding to this anon was like a parent assuring a doctor that they knew what they were talking about, that they know how their son acts like the back of their hands and that if Ivan wasn't sick he’d be acting entirely different. Ivan’s lower half was invisible because of the cell, but one could tell that he was slumped against the wall. His eyes were cast downwards, at some spot in the call in front of him only he could see, and he wasn’t looking at anyone but you could tell that he was listening. He heard every single word they said and wouldn’t look up, couldn’t. Alfred didn’t need to watch this video over again to tell the anon they were wrong, and in fact it even broke his heart a bit, so he pressed play and let it go on in the background as he read over the message.

“You can’t seriously be trying to single-handedly get a SERIAL KILLER out of PRISON. He got a life sentence, don’t you think there’s a reason for that? I mean you leARNED RUSSIAN FOR THIS GUY?!?! Just watch the court tapes! He looks so fucking guilty dude. You seriously need therapy, and even if u don’t get it now you’ll definitely need it when this guy starts sacrificing people to Satan again cuz of you lol.”

Alfred sighed comically and muttered a ‘God what a pleb’ as bullet fire Russian read out Ivan’s charges. He did learn Russian, that was true, but so what? His devotion (not obsession) helped extreme love turn into cultural awareness. The Russian news was interesting, and Russian TV was a gem. He became just that more open minded because of it, so this person could shove it up right up their zhopa. 

“Please, you’re going to critique me based on what Ivan LOOKS like in the video?” Alfred started, knowing full well that was hypocritical but he didn’t mention that. “You really have nothing better to do than to bully me do you? You should read over the evidence I’ve gathered if you’re gonna get so butt hurt my friend.” Alfred read over what he wrote, what the anon wrote, squashed his shame when he remembered he really did have a therapist. “Besides, it wasn’t a Satanist ritual they accused him of. The religion his family practiced had nothing to do with Satan, and unless they were hexing people they weren’t doing any harm. Try again dickweed.”

Alfred put his phone down and looked at the screen, thinking about whether or not he should say no. He secretly thanked God for electronic confrontation, because even though he didn’t shrink from confrontation in real life at least this way he could take time to think and the other people wouldn’t have to watch him try to come up with words. Chances were that face-to-face Alfred might have said something like “I’m not delusional, you’re delusional” and leave it at that. His phone vibrated in his palm as he thought and at the top of the screen, above his unpublished response, was a preview of a text from Kiku reading, “WILL YOU TELL US ALR…” 

Alfred smirked and had an idea, swiping away Kiku’s message and deleting the last few sentences he had written to the anon. In it’s place he wrote, “I’ll have my therapist sign the letter of thanks Ivan gives me and then I’ll send you a copy of it, along with a copy of the appeal I got for him this morning ;D” and hit send proudly.

He decided that he would sleep after that, lord knew how happy he’d be reading the responses in the morning. He removed his glasses and put them on the night table, basking in the satisfaction of having worked five years for something he could now boast about. He would single-handedly get Ivan justice. Which other true crime fans could say the same? Alfred’s hunches were always right and the pride wouldn’t stop swelling. 

There he was, laying in a comfortable bed in front of his laptop, making history, ready to finally see Ivan in real life. He’d be sitting in that same seat he was sitting in in the video, but this time he probably wouldn’t look so down. He wondered what Ivan looked like now and he hoped he was just as cute, maybe even cuter. How much could a man change anyway? He had to be around 36 and he was only 15 in this video. And would he thank Alfred? Would they get along? Alfred vowed now that no matter what happened he would make it work out, like a divorcee deciding to be civil around her baby daddy in the hopes that he would do the same. For the kids, you know? His followers would be looking forward to seeing him and Ivan unite.

It was one of those things that were so crazy that it was interesting, whether you were behind it or not.


	3. "You can't inherit money if you're already dead."

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ivan is a moody man and being freed from a high security Russian prison surprisingly doesn't do much to change that.

_“So I guess you’re out of here then, Braginsky."_

_Ivan cleared his throat as he struggled to muster the strength it would take to extend his hand off of the bed and grab his shirt, which must have only been a few inches away from his fingertips but from the top of the bed it seemed like he was reaching into a canyon. He wasn’t scared to thrust his hand into the abyss, he just lacked the motivation to do so._

_“That’s all I get? A grunt? No goodbyes?” Something warm glided across Ivan’s waist, under his outstretched arm and latched onto his shoulder, effectively destroying whatever will he mustered to get dressed just a few moments before. He might have been mad if the embrace wasn’t so warm. It felt like when his mother was finished drying quilts and he volunteered to be her laundry basket, back when he was that height._

_Something sharp knocked against his chest and the pain came welling back like a flood. Sometimes memories were just sharp enough that they could make a knick in his walls._

_“I can’t do any of that if I don’t at least get dressed first.” He pointed out, the first words he spoke all morning. With his cheek pressed against the pillow his talking was just a bit muffled and he could feel the side of his lips graze against his cheek. Another memory, a bit more dull, of relatives pinching Ivan’s face visited him._

_“Maybe that’s a good thing.” His partner chuckled throatily and pressed his lips into the space between Ivan’s ear and where his jawline began. “You can stay here with me forever.” He whispered, his breath hot on Ivan’s skin._

_The sheets rustled as Ivan switched positions and turned around. Arms and legs were moved, comforters were adjusted, heads rubbed against pillows for more comfort and once a quiet had settled Ivan filled it again with a sigh and watched his own fingers tap along the collarbone of the boy in front of him. “We could make a suicide pact. Lovers suicide. Like in that American movie with Christian Slater. Then I wouldn’t have to go home.”_

_“That wasn’t exactly a consensual suicide pact...or suicide at all.” Was the response and Ivan deflated, but why? Wasn’t that the answer he was supposed to be expected? Years and years in the future he would have so much time to ponder why he was so deeply disappointed, but the answer was always apparent. He just didn’t like to acknowledge it, that D word. If someone doesn’t want to look at a bleeding wound you shouldn’t describe to them how gaping it is. Just ignore it and it'll either go away or you'll pass out eventually._

_"Just come over again tonight, Vanya. Explain this, and that, and then tell them a friend invited you to their house for the night.” Fingers drifted over bruises on Ivan’s neck and scratch marks along his chest that matched a few on his back and Ivan’s eyelids fluttered with embarrassment._

_“What the hell am I supposed to tell them? A piglet confused my neck with its mother’s nipple?” Ivan asked, and just because piglet was appropriate at the moment he squeezed his partner’s waist in spots he knew would make the other squeal._

_“H-hey! Stop!” The other laughed and after some playful slapping managed to hold both of Ivan’s hands in one of his. “I would have done your nipples too if I’d known that those pigs were smarter than that. You’re pale enough….actually can I? That would be very cute.”_

_“No you can’t. I have to go home my love. God knows where another hickey will lead.” Ivan replied, honestly a bit peeved. His nipples weren’t that pale were they? Was that an attractive thing?_

_“Well then no complaining. You get your ass over there and tell them it’s none of their goddamn business if you have to.” Ivan’s hands were pushed away, a sign that the other boy’s temper was kicking in. “No, you know what? You tell them the truth. This was an early birthday present. Birthday sex. And if they don’t give two shits about you then they’ll be mad. If they do then they’ll be wondering how in the world they could have forgotten their son’s birthday.”_

_“They always forget.”_

_“Then fuck them. Tell them that for me, would you? Fuck. Them. Now get out of here, I’m starving and I can’t wake my parents up with the coffee smell before you’re gone.”_  


“So I guess you’re out of here then, Braginsky.” A voice thick and broken by years of smoking said. Ivan glanced at the mirror a guard was holding tentatively through the bars to see his bunkmate sitting behind him, hunched over the way a vulture might if it was expectantly waiting. 

“I guess so.” Ivan replied curtly and snapped back to looking at his scarf, the one thing from the family that those crime memorabilia freaks hadn’t gotten their hands on. Once again he found that he was unhappy with how he put the scarf on, and how it looked in the first place, and the unhappiness made him exhausted just as the exhaustion was making him unhappy. “Would it be too much to ask for a razor? One of the other guards could shave me. I always looked much better clean shaven.” He asked with a friendly smile, knowing full well what the answer was going to be even before it came. 

“We can’t trust you with that.” The guard shifted his weight from foot to foot and Ivan’s defeated expression swayed slightly. When the mirror steadied he could see his bunkmate grinning. 

“A razor? So now that you’re leaving this place your balls have grown bigger?” He laughed like bones against sandpaper. His name was Kozlovsky, first name Mikhail, and he was in jail for the murder and cannibalism of two children and their father. They don’t know where the mother is to this day. “I need a razor too.” 

“You don’t have a beard.” Ivan pointed out and marveled at how his fingers could nearly sink into his facial hair . At least it felt like the soft hair on his head and wasn’t coarse and curly like pubic hairs. Kozlovsky had virtually no hair at all, besides what the receding hairline hadn’t touched yet and the curls always poking out of the waistband of his pants, just there but not quite. It was like a preview at the movies and the showers were the horrifying premiere. It seemed that the carpet could exist without the drapes. Ivan made a point of staring down, as if to say ‘after all these years, you want to shave that now?’ 

“Not for my hair durak. I’m talking about all those tattoos you got. What was the most recent? A skull and crossbones?” Kozlovsky straightened up and opened the palms of his hands wide, his countenance taking on a sort of delighted surprise. “Where is your life sentence, boy?” 

“I told you already, this was unexpected. If I’d known I wouldn’t have gotten the tattoo.” Ivan replied. Though they had had this conversation several times in the past he couldn’t get over the pang of fear that would rip through his stomach every time the idea of false tattoos came up. He was almost out, almost far away from this madness, but he’d seen several times what it would look like if something happened between the time he was searched and out of the building that made them snatch away his appeal and march him back into his cell. The other prisoners would corner him, make him strip, one of them would have glass or a rock or something and then… 

“Where are those tattoos? Over your nipples? I remember how creative that was. It’s also a very convenient thing to cut off of someone.” 

“Hey.” The guard barked. “That’s enough 1136. You. Are you done?” 

“Yes.” Ivan replied and decided to leave the scarf as it was. At least in this loose coil he was able to pull it up and hide his mouth in it, no matter how annoying the beard was. 

“1136, turn around and put your hands on the wall in front of you. 1149, give me your hands.” The guard barked and slid the mirror out between the bars. Ivan’s hands followed, waiting to be handcuffed. Another guard darted in to help as, in unison, Ivan and Kozlovsky responded with a customary “Yes sir!” 

How weird it was going to be to walk out of a room without his hands tied. Not to hear a dog barking incessantly at him. The snarls never got any less menacing, he didn’t think. The drill went on and soon enough Ivan was on the outside, in casual clothing, ready to be free. “Goodbye Kozlovsky.” He muttered and as he was led away he could make out the sound of phlegm whooshing past lips. 

Ivan tried to keep his breathing steady as men in uniform surrounded him, at least blocking some of the view he had of other prisoners eyeing him. He was able to prep himself for the reactions of his cellmates but ever since he received notice that someone, some Allen or Alfred or Albert, had enough evidence to get him the appeal he was less concerned with trying to keep up an innocent act and more with defending himself. There was always questions and dirty looks and once or twice the window for an intense fist fight. Ivan was a large man so they didn’t try it, but they knew now that he had to be on his best behavior, and his genial smile which so many found intimidating and even a little creepy worked more in his favor during those weeks than it did when he was on trial some 16 years ago. All this time making sure he left the prison in one piece left little to no time for him to plan what he’d do to take care of himself on the outside. Now was when the panic set in, because now was when he could afford it. 

He tried to keep his breathing steady as the guards stuffed him into a holding cell and waited until the door was locked to unlock his cuffs. One guard barked the order for him to undress and he was too busy making sure his chest didn’t heave too much to care that all the work he’d put into dressing himself was going to waste. That guard glanced disapprovingly at the tattoos that adorned Ivan’s chest, torso and arm, but just sighed and motioned for the other guards to take Ivan’s close and begin a part of their search. In the meantime he scanned through a paper on a clipboard and fished into his pocket for a pen. 

“State your name, number and date of birth please.” He said in a monotone . 

“My name is Ivan Ivanovich Braginsky, number 1149 and I was born on the 30th of December, 1978.” Ivan replied and averted eye contact with anyone as he tried to put his hands over his exposed crotch. 

“Do you have any relatives outside of prison?” 

“None that I know of.” 

“So you have contact with no one?” 

“No.” 

“Can you say to me with certainty that you are not carrying any illegal contraband with you, including any weaponry, messages from your fellow inmates, contraband?” 

“Yes.” 

“How old are you?” 

“36.” 

“Do you have a job outside of the prison?” The guard stepped aside to let his co-worker pass Ivan his underwear, now with torn seams. Ivan put them on gratefully and took a few shaky breaths. It felt like there was a rock in his chest, which might have been concerning if heart stones existed as some sort of cousin to kidney stones. Otherwise it was just it emotionstaking over too much. It sure made talking difficult. 

“No I don’t.” 

“Do you have money?” 

“Yes.” 

“Where is it coming from and how much?” 

“It’s 16,000. Some from my work inside of the prison, the rest of it came from….from my family. My mother and father’s will.” 

The guard looked up at Ivan without moving his head away from the clipboard where he was dutifully writing notes. “Your….parents left you money?” 

“Yes.” Ivan’s throat nodded and he could feel his pulse behind his eyes. He hated it when people looked at him that way. In an instant the rock in his chest was replaced with something that burned. “Some of it was for my sisters but you can’t inherit money if you’re already dead.” He spat. 

Ivan’s hands were shaking as a pause grew, so when he was handed back his pants (also ripped at the seams), he was thankful for the momentary distraction. He could have grabbed the guard’s head and pulled him forwards so his head hit the bars and if that didn’t break his nose at first then it might have at least made him bleed and he could do it a few more times just to hear one good crack coming from his he- 

“Do you have a house to go to, prisoner? Somewhere to live? The farm is public property now.” The guard was still using that accusatory tone but at least the look that matched it was aimed back at the clipboard. 

“No I don’t. My plans are to move for now. I went through it with my probation officer. He said it would be okay if I lived somewhere remote where he could check on me.” 

“Were the plans already made?” 

“He bought me a ticket to America. Nothing else. That I can do on my own.” 

“Where are you going to stay?” 

“Cheap motels until he can help me find an apartment.” 

“Where?” The guard repeated. Ivan was handed his scarf. 

“Somewhere cold. Upstate. Next to the Canadian border.” Ivan replied and waited until he was handed his shirt to struggle with the damn scarf again. It was made even worse by the fact that his hands wouldn’t stop shaking. His pulse wooshed in his ears. 

The pen was put away, mercifully, and the guard sighed. “Somebody is waiting to pick you up. Not your probation officer. Maybe your lawyer. He’s in a rental car outside.” The guard nodded to the others to get him out of the cell, going through the tedious rounds of cuffing him, unlocking the cell door, getting him out, locking it again. They dismissed the dog as they walked down the hall. Little by little layers of guards were stripped away. There was more and more windows and lights the closer he got to the exit. In the end it was him and the one guard who had interviewed him, standing outside. Ivan inhaled deeply as the sound of cranks and clicking accompanied the removal of his handcuffs. It was like music. 

“No paperwork?” Ivan asked, unable to look at one thing for too long. Everything was so average, besides the fenced off fields surrounding them., but seeing it all through the lens of someone who was finally free after their entire adolescence being ripped from them made it a pretty refreshing sort of average. In front of him was a normal road leading to a normal parking lot on a normal, hot summer day. It was hard for Ivan to remember that the rest of the world didn’t stop moving just because he was in prison. 

“Someone else took care of it.” The guard said and sighed, though his sigh was much different from Ivan’s relieved one. “Enjoy your freedom.” He said before going back inside. “If you ask me, you got way too lucky Braginsky.”


	4. "You look pretty good for someone who just got out of prison."

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> First impressions aren't as great as they could be and Alfred is a sneaky bastard. Short chapter.

"Hoooly shit." The hushed exclamation left Alfred's lips before he had the time to censor himself, which honestly the young man was never inclined to do in the first place. It was hard not to let that escape once he got an eyeful of his celebrity crush in the flesh, looking fine after puberty and honestly a lot more tall than Alfred could have imagined. His mind automatically began running through comparisons. The cheeks lingered but a healthy chunk of the baby fat was gone, leaving him with a long, round face that wasn’t too exaggerated or unpleasant. It was actually quite flattering when combined with his nose and eyes, which stayed the same from that young age. His eyes weren’t as wide as they used to be, but that was just a part of his mature air, which Alfred thought was incredibly sexy. The only thing that really changed was his build. 

Prison must have meant a lot of free time, and Alfred had learned that a lot of free time meant a lot of room to brood, which was dangerous for a prisoner. Ivan probably worked out to fill that void, and the thought of Ivan grunting with the strain of forty more push-ups or looking concentrated as he moved quickly through another hundred sit ups send a buzzing through Alfred’s gut. The court desks and sea of guards suddenly seemed like too far away, but he had spent a near lifetime admiring Ivan from across countries so a couple feet was close to a miracle.

Though his opinion on whether it was a blessing or a curse did waver a little when Ivan’s tattoos were brought up to the court and he had to show them off. 

Reminded of this instance Alfred began tapping his fingers eagerly on the steering wheel of his car. What in the world was taking so long? They couldn’t possibly have changed their mind and kept Ivan could they? That wasn’t legal at all. He would have to go through the tiring task of suing people and getting warrants all over again. For some reason most native Russians didn’t take kindly to American fanatics who were trying to free historically violent people.

Also the confines of the car were really beginning to seem daunting to Alfred. It was too hot and too cold all at once and he could have sworn the ceiling was falling on him. In fact the whole car seemed to be distorting like some sort of trippy dream and Alfred could only concentrate on how much he wanted out. In fact he was certain he had to leave immediately or something would happen. 

So he got out of the car and wiped his sweaty palms on his jeans before hopping from one foot to the other as he waited for Ivan, which helped calmed his nerves a little. Sometimes he got a little frantic like that, but he figured it would pass before Ivan got close. Alfred checked his watch again. 2:30. It had been over 50 minutes already. 

Back home it still would have been warm enough for Alfred to come outside in shorts and a t-shirt, but apparently in late August it got chilly in Russia. There was a relentless breeze that made any pauses in the wind things to relish in, because at least there’d be a moment of warmth before the cold took over again. He wondered what it felt like inside of the prison. A lot of prisons tended to get pretty cold, he knew. Were jumpsuits warm? They didn’t seem like too much but he knew there were layers underneath that. Ivan had a tank on under his jumpsuit before the court asked him to show them the tattoos. Ivan had the most amazing back muscles. Impatiently, Alfred checked the watch again. 2:31. Where was this man?

At 2:33, from across the vacant parking lot, Alfred could make out a blob rhythmically bouncing from in between the layers of fence and barbed wire that separated the cars from the prison yard. The prisoners would come out at 3 every day and got to watch trucks loaded with supplies roll into the prison. Alfred wondered if anyone ever tried to sneak into a truck, but he hadn’t heard many reports of escaped prisoner. In fact Ivan was 1 of 2 men in all of the prison’s history to get out on an appeal. Of course Alfred swelled with pride at that fact, as if he was some sort of savior. 

Ivan’s first glimpse of his mystery chauffeur was a blonde head bobbing up and down behind a car, blue eyes peeking past a roof. Ivan shifted his weight to his left foot, not entirely sure what was happening back there. He lost interest quickly and continued admiring his environment. It should have felt special being able to walk in this parking lot, but for some reason he couldn’t feel a thing. He had imagined running down it to freedom so many times, especially when he was younger, and now even a casual stroll across the gravel didn’t feel special. It was weird...almost like he was hollow.

“Ivan Ivanovich!” The head shouted and thrust a hand up over the car to wave him over. Ivan walked over soundlessly and noted that the other man had an accent. Or, at least, he didn’t shorten Ivan’s middle name the way native Russian speakers would instinctively do. He remembered that some criminal psychology student had been in court helping Ivan’s lawyer interpret evidence. He remembered seeing this student, who was blonde, be escorted up to the stands. He stared a lot during his evaluations of Ivan and would turn away quickly when Ivan caught his eye. Maybe he was nervous to be psychoanalyzing someone right in front of them. Either way Ivan blocked out his insight and stared at a spot on the floor. He’d heard too many versions of his personality to be interested in yet another. Now apparently this person was his chauffeur. 

“Hello.” Ivan greeted. Once he was close he was able to confirm that this was the guy he was thinking about. He was still bobbing on his heels as Ivan approached and the other man held his hand out for a handshake enthusiastically. 

“Hey Ivan!” The other man greeted, in english now. “Alfred, but I’m sure you know that already.” 

Ivan, in fact, did not know that this boy’s name was Alfred, but it sounded as though he was somehow supposed to. With a polite nod he took Alfred’s hand and shook it. He would have taken his hand back but Alfred’s hand lingered and wouldn’t let go. Ivan cleared his throat. “So you’ll be taking me home then?” He asked and twisted his wrist at an awkward angle to inch out of the other’s grasp. 

“Yup! Though I’ll be honest, I’m not really sure where home is supposed to be. I can run you through things in the car if you want?” Alfred offered and gestured to the vehicle. Ivan, having nowhere else to go, reluctantly made his way to the passenger seat. “Nice outfit by the way!” Alfred called from the other side of the car. “You look pretty good for someone who just got out of prison.”

Ivan stopped with his hand on the door handle, furrowed his eyebrows and decided that the comment wasn’t totally insulting before finally getting inside. He wasn’t even halfway to his seat when Alfred’s voice was running again. “The sweater is a nice touch, you look good in it so I’m assuming your sister made it for you. I’ll be completely honest, I bou-...I…” He paused, cleared his throat and started the vehicle. Better not to mention that he bought some of the scarves Yekaterina had sewn for exorbitant amounts of money. That might ruin some of the surprise. “I would bet you missed that scarf! Haha...the jumpsuits look uncomfortable.”

Sometimes gut feelings mean a lot and should be listened to. Ivan’s gut feeling at the moment was that there was something deeply wrong with this human being, but he couldn’t put his finger on it. It wasn’t anything obvious. In fact, he was sure he might be imagining it, because Alfred was pretty handsome and his boyish voice was charming and he seemed easy to talk to. Those things led Ivan to believe that he might be a sociopath. If that new suspicion was true then the media would sure get a kick out of those two in a car together. 

At any rate, as much as Ivan hated making conversation (and was probably bad at it after years of staying out of people’s way) he decided to get to know the guy. After all, Ivan had gotten into this car without asking for any details on anything, so he could be in the middle of a kidnapping and not know it. Now that he was on the outside Alfred was his surest ticket to get far, far away from the prison and closer to civilization. 

“They’re okay. Snug. Listen, who exactly were you during the trial? I don’t remember much.” Ivan’s first attempt at getting a hold on things started with just that, and he watched Alfred’s hands work as they pulled out of the parking lot and onto the road. Ivan never got to learn how to drive…

“You don’t remember much from your own trial?” Alfred laughed and took his eyes off the road for a little longer than was necessary to look at Ivan. 

“No.” Ivan didn’t find that particularly funny.

“Ah...well alright. I’m the guy who gathered all of the evidence, that’s all.” Alfred boasted as though his endeavour of almost five years wasn’t all that grand. “Plus I had compiled a psychological profile on you based on a lot of the stuff I found that I was able to use. I don’t know how much that helped but...here you are! So I’m guessing I did my job pretty well?”

Maybe this was the thing that Ivan was trying to put his finger on. Alfred was already the least humble person Ivan had ever met. But he had to give it to the man, he did something no one thought was possible. 

Ivan raised his eyebrows as an agreement and looked out of the window on his side. Eventually he was prompted to speak up again. He could feel the eyes on him. “So exactly how old are you?” Ivan asked to fill the silence that started sending shivers up his spine. “And what exactly do you plan to do with me?”

“I’m 25.” Alfred replied quickly. “So I’m totally an adult. And right now I have tickets for us for tomorrow’s flight back to America. I booked mine with yours because I have to go back anyway so I figured why not.” Ivan wasn’t questioning that fact anyway. _Guilty conscience much?_ “Your parole officer will probably be meeting us at the hotel inside of the airport. There are going to be cops, I warn you now. They don’t really like the idea of you spending time around other people for now. But I’ve got all your bags in the back, so until we get there you and I can go do whatever you want! Anything you want to see, bro?”

Alfred had been excited for this part of the journey because it meant that he was going to possibly have a sentimental moment or two with Ivan. It would be really great for bonding without having to spend a lot of time together, which Alfred was going to try and do anyway, but it was like knowing a cheat code to bump your character up a few levels without having to put in some of the time and possible failure. Especially not the possible failure. 

But Ivan only replied with silence. “You heard?” Alfred asked softly and Ivan exhaled deeply. 

“I don’t think there’s anywhere for me to go in this village. Or the next one over.” Ivan replied, his cheek pressed against his fist. 

Alfred’s countenance softened into what might have looked like disappointment if only Ivan gave him more than just a passing glance. “Are you sure?” he asked as though he was wounded. “It would be some really great closure for you. I know you didn’t get a chance to say goodbye to a lot of things. Hell, I know there are parts of the house that haven’t been sacked completely.”

When Ivan said nothing Alfred continued. “It would be good for you. You can look at the things you used to know, especially after being in prison for so long. You can’t feel pain from rubbing salt into a scar, you know? Things have healed a little. Even if you do cry it’ll be therapeutic crying. You weren’t able to express any of that remorse when you were under all of that suspicion, so I promise you it’ll feel good to do it now. It really is closure. You’ll be doing things you wished you could have done.”

Ivan bristled not because Alfred was wrong and Ivan was insulted, but because he was completely right and Ivan was afraid. He swung his head around to look at Alfred so quickly that a strand of hair almost got caught in his mouth. This time, as Ivan was looking Alfred up and down, Alfred straightened up a little under the scrutinization. He was sure of himself, and the smug asshole knew just how off guard Ivan was for his comment. 

“So. Are we going?” Alfred asked. 

“Something tells me you were planning to the whole time.” Ivan muttered coldly and sat back in his chair to stare down into his lap and contemplate...everything. He already knew the answer was going to be what it turned out to be, a giggly little, “Yup. Sorry buddy.”

From there on out things were quieter and the only sound that passed was that of the tires bumping violently against the damaged road. It made Ivan feel sick to his stomach and instead of looking at the hands going limp in his lap he looked straight ahead. Wondering whether questioning the other more would hurt him more than just staying silent would he settled for the former.

"You put some work into sticking your nose into my life." Ivan's monotone sentence was spoken in Russian, and Alfred was slow and calculated in his response.

"You interest me." The young man's accent was more obvious in a full sentence. "You always have. I knew somehow that you had to be innocent."

Ivan scoffed and silenced the American before he could continue, as he was planning to. "That's like saying you had a feeling you could shoot a man and be certain he wouldn't die."

Alfred let that response sink in and took a few turns in silence. The atmosphere had settled into a heavy one on the brink of hostility, but if there was anything Alfred was good at it had to be avoiding the atmosphere of any situation. “Except…” He started after a minute. “Except I’m a really good shot.” 

Ivan’s second scoff put a little knick in Alfred’s towering ego. “No one’s good enough to avoid every artery. To make it with every shot. You could have gone wrong somewhere.” He pointed out, and began to wonder exactly how many people Alfred spoke to. 

“Well I did hit a few dead ends along the way.” Alfred made a left turn onto a road that hadn’t changed at all since Ivan was young. It sent a pang into the man’s stomach and suddenly he wasn’t interested in the conversation, though he continued to digest Alfred’s words. “But I’m sure it should say something that I got this far despite what other people said. I didn’t doubt my convictions once.” 

“Well thanks.” Ivan’s brain switched onto autopilot and used conventional politeness instead of trying to formulate sentences. He was too busy noticing all of the scenery. Low cut grass as far as the eye could see was only interrupted by skinny, malnourished cows and small patches of lakes. A few old men sat in coats and passed around a bottle as they fished. Their dogs would bark once at the car as it passed but settled immediately after, as if they were too tired to continue expressing their offense. Other cars would come by eventually.

He had wondered in passing moments between waking and drifting off to sleep whether things had changed much in the past few years. He never knew how he would feel about that and chalked it all up to “it depends on the change.” He had forgotten exactly how many old people lived in this area and didn’t take into account their discomfort with the uprooting of old customs. That in itself filled him with a warmth that he knew would go away as soon as he set foot on the farm, the one thing that didn’t wait for Ivan to get out before changing. 

“We’re not going.” Ivan decided and didn’t make eye contact when Alfred looked at him. “We don’t have to go and I would prefer heading straight to the airport.” He decided. 

Alfred, though he really wanted to, was turned off from protesting because of something in Ivan’s tone. He did sigh heavily to make it clear that he didn’t like the idea, but not heavily enough to suggest that he was frustrated. The rest of the car ride passed in silence, but Alfred made sure (with shuffles and surfing the radio channels) that it wasn’t a heavy or particularly uncomfortable silence. Ivan would have been able to ignore the silence no matter what kind it was.

He must have fallen asleep at some point, with the car humming and the heater on blast (for some unknown reason. Ivan didn’t think it was necessary). It was like he rested his eyes for a minute and there he was, being gently prodded by Alfred. 

“Morning, sleepyhead.” Alfred cooed when Ivan had shrugged his arm away from the other’s hand. “You looked very comfortable.”

“Nnmh.”

“Ready to get out?”

“Nnmh?”

“We made it to the airport. We’re staying here for the night. Didn’t I tell you that already?"

“Nnm-hm.” Ivan nodded sleepily and rubbed an eye as he tried to find the voice to say, “That was fast. I am surprised.”

“It was actually a pretty long time. You probably won't be able to sleep tonight, but that's okay. Now you and I can live it up here. Your first night free. I mean...you have to get an ankle monitor. And we need to have an officer with us. But it's freedom! Right?”

Ivan scoffed, which was actually a good sign. It meant the sleep wore out any rough edges he had towards Alfred. At least the excitable man had done Ivan the merciful thing of bypassing his house. He spoke before the memory of his psychoanalyzation could come back to him. “What exactly is there to do at an airport?”

“Ehm...gift shops I guess. Bars. Casinos. Restaurants. The parole officer might have to give us restrictions but I'm certain we can at least get food. I'm starving.”

“Me too.”

“Well alright then! It's settled, you and I go get you settled and then we find a good restaurant. Deal?”

Ivan exhaled long enough to ready himself. After sitting for so long his legs were stiff, and yet he didn't want to get up. The car was warm. “Deal.”

“Alright! Let's go!” Alfred cried and was out of the car far faster than Ivan. 

While Ivan was being escorted around by police and being told where he could and could not go, along with being given a description of what parole would look like for the next few years, Alfred uploaded the pictures of a snoozing Ivan that he had taken onto his tumblr and rejoiced in the notes that immediately began to roll in. History was finally made.

  


_Blue eyes darted upwards to watch the second hand on the clock tick away, each second a blessing in disguise. On the one hand it was another second that his father hadn't shown up to the principal's office, and on the other it was one second less that he had left. Alfred clutched the letter in his hand and the envelope popped in response, a crease permanently pressed down the middle. He was silently praying that his father would take his side on this one. He wished that he was Mattie so that maybe his father would be kinder to him. He was always taking Alfred's twin's side. Mommy used to take Alfred's just to play devil's advocate...he prayed to his mom as well. She would be much easier to handle if she was still around._

_Immediately after this thought the door opened and a harried man in a suit came strolling in holding a briefcase. Alfred's heart sunk. Both the clock and his mother had forsaken him, and the latter stung much more. The wound was still pretty fresh. Tears sprung into his eyes and he wiped them away with a whimper, at which point the principal clucked her teeth._

_"Good that you're showing remorse for this Alfred, whatever it is." His father said. Even when Alfred was an adult he would never be able to figure out if it was the British accent that made his father sound that way while talking to him or if he always interacted with his family as though they were co-workers. Even as a young child it was that way. His father turned his gaze to the principal so that she could fill in the blanks._

_"Well Mr. Jones-"_

_"Kirkland." The man's correction was so commonplace that Alfred was able to mouth the words as his father was speaking. "I don't share the same last name as my son. As either of them. It's Kirkland."_

_"Ah...well Mr. Kirkland, as you know your son has decided to join our school's pen pal program, buddies without borders-"_

_"He doesn't know." Alfred interrupted. "He doesn't know and he doesn't care." The look that his father shot him wasn't enough to silence him. He wasn't about to let adults trample him in this meeting, no sir._

_"Let the principal talk, Alfred." Arthur snapped through clenched teeth. "As you were saying?" His voice softened as he was referring to the principal but the hard gaze stayed on Alfred. The young boy stuck his tongue out._

_"U-Um...well this year our outreach program was to kids living in Eastern and Northern Europe. And for the most part we've given the children free reign on who they want to talk to. Now...recently the teachers decided to do a check in. We read the response letters before giving them back to the students and we've found that your son has been writing to...well...I'm not sure how to say this. Well a murderer, Mr. Kirkland."_

_Arthur's eyes widened and both adults were gazing at Alfred with mixed looks of shock and discomfort, which gave him the perfect opening to speak. "It's not fair! They're not supposed to read our letters, those are private!" He exclaimed, young voice cracking._

_"Private...how?" Mr. Kirkland asked and for a moment Alfred could see genuine concern flood his father's eyes. The desperation. He might have been doing some soul searching, even restructuring his priorities, right then and there. "Did he send you anything that made you uncomfortable, darling?"_

_Alfred's dad hadn't said darling in so long. Not since mom. This time the tears really did spill, but he wiped them away angrily. "No! He talks to me about books he likes and I tell him about TV shows and the news and he's teaching me Russian. I can write my name down! All of it! He's nice and he's not a meany!"_

_"This inmate isn't someone much older than Alfred. He must be a teenager at least. And there wasn't a sexual offense in his record at all...we also didn't find anything suspicious in the letters they were exchanging."_

_Alfred's face had morphed into an image of pure, unadulterated grief that only children and adults in tremendous pain were capable of. Of course, even as an adult Alfred would be this expressive, so he was the outlier. "They made me give all of my letters to my teacher." Alfred sobbed. "She read them all right in front of me! Those are private, daddy."_

_Alfred also hadn't used "daddy" in a while, but it had the effect that he needed it to have._

_"Well I'm glad you called me in to tell me." Alfred's dad pulled his son in for a hug and held him close to his chest. The love in the hug made him cry even harder and suddenly the invasion and separation of Alfred and his new friend meant very little to the boy. "May I have the letter, please? And can we go now?"_

_"Yes you may, as long as you understand that we're not allowing Alfred to stay in the buddies program. Whether you let him continue his correspondence or not is up to you." The principal replied in a way that suggested that she would be judging him very severely if he let this continue._

_"Understood." Arthur replied hurriedly._

_Once they'd gotten home all of the letters were laid out on the table. Arthur promised he wouldn't read any, a monumental signal for Alfred that he could trust his father. Maybe that was why he was so willing to give up talking to his new friend. He didn't even write a letter in response. His father's rebound after months of distance was something he wanted to cherish, and while it was very obvious to him now that his father loved him despite not being able to express it the way he might have wanted to, he was incapable of understanding just how much Ivan needed those letters in his first few years at prison. So while Alfred enjoyed the love and attention that waned until it disappeared again, Ivan's heartbreak at the sharp end to a comforting friendship with a little boy waned until he had to teach himself not to expect much from the people he knew in prison. Ivan wouldn't respond to any letters that he received after this episode._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was very long overdue and there isn't even a lot happening in it so I sincerely apologize to anyone who was looking forward to this, if you're out there. School has really just opened its palm and slammed my ear as hard as it possibly could. All I hear is ringing now if not the piles of homework rustling.  
> Alternately, my sight is just fine and I want to thank anyone who has left comments for being so nice. You're the only reasons I haven't deleted this.


End file.
